


a wolf by the ears

by scarlett_the_seachild



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: But only if you squint, Canon Era, First Meetings, First Time, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-05-24 02:03:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14945546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlett_the_seachild/pseuds/scarlett_the_seachild
Summary: Colonel Hamilton already has his work cut out for him when a cocksure, blue-eyed young man walks one day into camp.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have 3 things to update but i have The Block so out of a desperate need to post something I unearthed this from the dredges of my laptop...i wrote it a very long time ago and was gonna delete, but if people like it hopefully it will be enough to kickstart this engine and get me going to write a part 2

Hamilton isn’t immediately popular with the men. Parachuted in this grad student; young but without the idleness or frivolity that should attend to it. Instead of the pockmarked, push-over adolescent they had been expecting Washington’s army find themselves faced with the command of a belligerent colonel, hard-nosed and uncompromising and _bossy;_ in a nasal, almost female way that manages to make them feel emasculated, as well as checked.

He can tell they don’t like him. His pedantry confuses them – when his back is turned he hears them grumbling and making jokes that they’ve never met a man so concerned with the state of a soldier’s boots. It would bother him, if he had come here to make friends. He hasn’t. He has come to win Washington’s war for him and hope that maybe, in the process, it will get him somewhere long-term.

Hamilton is writing up an order for more weapons when he hears the cough outside his tent. It serves for a knock at the door; hesitant, a little awkward. Alexander doesn’t put down his quill but says: “Come in” without looking up.

The tent flap lifts and a man enters. Alexander scribbles on for a little longer, exaggerating his importance, making him wait. When he finally glances up from the page the man is looking around the small space with interest, examining Alexander’s effects with a sort of polite curiosity as if finding them quaint, but charming.

Hamilton places the quill to one side, folds his arms. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Uh ya,” the man’s eyes snap to focus. They are blue, not light like his own but so dark they might as well be black. His skin shines brown as a nut from the sun and like his hair, hanging long dark and curly over his shoulders, slightly damp from exertion. “I’m here to see General Washington?”

A question, still, there’s something in his tone that seems to expect Alexander to jump to his feet with a flustered: _Of course sir, just a minute, he’ll be here in a jiffy._ Hamilton raises an eyebrow, pursing his lips into a tight, firm line.

“Really,” he says, letting an edge of disbelief crawl into his voice. “Do you have an appointment?”

The man shuffles his feet, looking uncertain. Hamilton’s glance is drawn magnetically to his boots. They look new but the toes are scuffed, the leather dull and un-shined.

“I think so?” he suggests. “I’m John Laurens.”

 _I’m John Laurens._ Like Hamilton should know who he is. He doesn’t. But he knows very well the look that goes with it, the mock humility: _I’m John Laurens. No matter, not a big deal,_ the easy, casual grace of the self-assured and comfortable with their place in the world. The curl in Hamilton’s lip intensifies. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

John Laurens laughs. Alexander stares at him. Realising he isn’t joking, John Laurens’ mouth falls open and he blinks stupidly.

“Um,” says Laurens. “I’m Henry Laurens’ son? Y’know, from Congress? Washington’s expecting me.”

“Let me see your papers,” says Hamilton.

Laurens hands them over. Alexander inspects them. They appear to be in order, signed with the handsome, flourishing signature of Philadelphia and a regal-looking seal. Alexander has never been more disappointed to receive correct documentation in his life. He hands them back and picks up his quill.

“Report to the barracks for registration and your uniform,” he says, resetting pen to paper. “His Excellency will be alerted to your arrival.”

Laurens nods distractedly. He chews his lip and remains in the doorway, shifting uncertainly from one foot to the other. When this grows too annoying to ignore any longer, Alexander looks up.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” he asks, voice steely.

“Oh, no,” Laurens shakes his head, apparently coming back to earth. “I’m good. Thank you.”

“You may go,” Alexander tells him.

John Laurens salutes, or at least, Hamilton assumes he does, being suddenly wholly and deliberately consumed by the order. He hears the flap of the tent lift and when he glances up again, Laurens has left.

*

New aids arrive, and with each one a new surrogate son to Washington’s family. Alexander finds that, against his better judgment, he likes them; Richard Meade’s wry humour, McHenry’s boorish stories, Ben Tallmadge’s nervous kindness. What’s more is it seems they like him too. Hamilton has had friends before, of course he has. But with them the relationship has always been built out of necessity, cordial, but surface level.

Not so with these. At the end of the first week Richard suggests that all the aides, Greene’s and Knox’s included, go for a drink. The proposal is met with resounding support. Even Aaron Burr cracks a smile. Hamilton himself is reserved. He has a tendency, when drunk, to talk – even more so than usual. He doesn’t want to scare away his new friends before he’s even made them.

He needn’t have worried. An hour at the closest tavern and John Laurens is already the drunkest there. He comes swaggering up to the bar, coins practically spilling out of his pockets like doubloons from a pirate’s waistcoat and slams the money down on the counter, ordering a round for them all.

“Congress’ contribution to the revolution,” he says.

The company laughs and Laurens nudges in beside Alexander. He is largely limb and elbow but he makes a point not to bump him. They haven’t really spoken since that first meeting; Hamilton has learnt very quickly exactly what being the son of Henry Laurens means, meanwhile, John Laurens has discovered through efforts of his own that the young Lieutenant Colonel, bright star of the Continental Army, has scarcely a dollar to his name. It doesn’t make for easy acquaintance.

But John Laurens is drunk.

“You take these great men,” he tells the group, slapping his palm on the table for emphasis. “You take the words straight from their mouths. Rousseau, Ben Franklin, Thomas Jefferson: ‘man was born free and is everywhere in chains’, ‘all men are created equal’. Okay, great, fantastic. So by ‘everywhere’ and ‘all’ I’m guessing we’re speaking purely figuratively, are we? Because, and forgive me, the last time I checked _each and every one of you owned slaves.”_

“This again,” Meade rolls his eyes impatiently. “Look, Laurens. Everyone here wants to see an end to slavery as fast as the next true man of reason. But the fact remains we need to present a united front against the British. We can’t let liberty die over a philosophy that can only ever result in division.”

“It is not a philosophy,” Laurens spits and his eyes flash with a fury that borders on the apocalyptic. “It is _hypocrisy,_ plain and simple. The words liberty and slavery are incompatible. To build a republic on the foundations of such an institution is to build a cathedral on wet fucking sand.”

“Fine words coming from John Laurens,” Burr raises an eyebrow over the rim of his drink. “And tell us, what exactly was the latest valuation of your father’s own hypocrisy? Something like ten thousand, wasn’t it?”

Laurens slumps, seething, into his chair. Hamilton, who has spent this past half an hour utterly engrossed by the unbridled passion of Laurens’ rage draws close to murmur in his ear.

“Don’t worry,” he mutters. “One of the great conveniences of being a _man of reason_ is that we are now worth more than our parentage.”

Laurens barks a laugh. He is scowling, already dark face half cloaked in shadow. The eye he casts over the company is broody and self-contemplative. “You travel halfway across the world to found a new one,” he says. “Only to find it half-smothered in its cradle by the old.”

“Where were you before?” asks Alexander.

“Geneva.”

“Europe?”

Laurens glances up. “You know it?”

Hamilton gives him a look. “I know Europe, yes.”

Laurens goes a little pink and mumbles an apology, raising his sixth pint to his mouth.

“There,” he says, slamming it down onto the table. “If only Henry Laurens could see what good his support does his son, out here on the fringes of civilisation.”

“You don’t get on with your father,” Alexander observes.

John Laurens pulls a face. His expression moves easily, as if well-accustomed to folding into the lines. “Does anyone?”

Alexander shrugs. “Wouldn’t know,” he says coldly.

Laurens’ eyes widen with what he probably thinks is understanding. Hamilton brings his own tankard to his lips.

“Sorry,” Laurens replies eventually. “I didn’t realise you were an orphan.”

Hamilton swallows. “Technically, I’m not.”

Laurens looks unsure whether he wants to pull another face. He decides against it. “I don’t know what’s better or worse to tell you the truth,” he confesses.

Alexander stares at him, giving him a chance to apologise. When none is forthcoming he bursts out laughing and suddenly finds that he can’t stop. Laurens watches him, blinking in surprise. The others are all deep in conversation, too fast engaged to wonder what has Hamilton doubled over in his seat like a lunatic, which he supposes is just as well.

“I guess that was a sort of awful thing to say,” says Laurens after a while.

“Sort of, yeah,” Alexander gasps.

Laurens grins. It’s lopsided, very toothy, canines slightly too sharp. Hamilton finds he likes it a lot. “You’re not upset, though.”

Alexander shakes his head. Coughs out the beer that has gone down the wrong way. Laurens thumps him on the back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the block continues so i stay up till 1am knowing i have work tomorrow at 6 to write porn yayyy

There’s a lot more talk after that. Alexander knows Europe yes, but he doesn’t know about the tide of abolitionism currently swathing through Geneva and Stockholm and Berlin, doesn’t know about the anti-monarchist sentiment bubbling beneath the gilded marble fonts of Vienna and Paris. For him, Europe has always been a dark land of deep forests and old Gods, venerable mountains concealing ring-stones and whispers of ancient memory. But in John Laurens’ mouth it bursts forth like a firework on Guy Fawkes’, rings fresh and new like spring, like the green saplings shooting up on the bank of the Hudson when the pilgrims saw it for the very first time.

Also, John Laurens’ mouth.

“I have a plan,” Laurens tells him, blue-black eyes glazed with alcohol but still holding as much scorching purpose as they ever did. “To recruit a battalion of black slaves and offer them freedom in exchange for service. I’m staking my inheritance on it.”

“Your…” says Hamilton, who, having caught up with Laurens, is now having some trouble getting past the perfect bow of his bottom lip. “Your inheritance.”

Laurens bobs his head in that mock-humble sort of way, which is suddenly much more endearing than it was in Hamilton’s tent. “Henry is letting me try,” he says, lip curling automatically. “Because he thinks it isn’t possible. Humouring me, _let Jacky have this one. Let him his fun._ But it is, it _is.”_ He drops his head into his hands, long curls falling through the gaps of his fingers. “And once it is, it’ll be all over for people like him,” he mutters against his palm. “I just need to get it through Congress.”

Alexander is chewing his lip, having gotten over his fascination enough to appreciate objectively Laurens’ words. He’s quite for a long time, but when he finally speaks his voice is heavy with intent. “I’ll help you.”

Laurens lifts his face out his hands to stare at Hamilton. “You’ll what?”

“Your battalion,” Hamilton clarifies. “I’ll help you with it. It can be our project. Our legacy.”

Laurens’ face breaks into that wry, crooked smile, kindling a small fire in the pit of Hamilton’s stomach. “Most people just have children.”

Which is a…kind of an odd thing to say.

But Hamilton goes with it. “Not before marriage,” he replies. “One step at a time, Laurens.”

His voice is jocular, a fairly obvious repartee. Yet Laurens flushes, deep and red as a beet to the very roots of his dark hair. Hamilton stares at it, warm delight curling at the sight of the rich spread, creeping into the deep hollows of Laurens’ cheeks. A delight which only grows at Laurens’ answer.

“I wouldn’t dishonour you,” he mutters, flicking Hamilton a look from under his eyelashes. “Don’t I strike you as a gentleman?”

“I thought you were a man of reason,” Hamilton retorts. “Haven’t you read your Rousseau? You’ve been so hard on the poor man, I thought you must be an expert.”

“I thought the point of Rousseau was that all men might be gentlemen.”

“On the contrary,” Hamilton purrs. “The point of Rousseau is that all men are ravaging wolves. It only takes a revolution to shake them out of their sheep’s clothing.”

His glance flickers once again to Laurens’ mouth. If he had been a lady, Hamilton would have put his hand on his thigh.

So he does.

Laurens’ eyes widen as he looks down at Hamilton’s hand, laying lightly and casually at the top of his leg. He swallows and Hamilton traces the movement, feeling his own breath catch as Laurens looks back at him.

“You’d take a wolf by the ears, Hamilton?” he murmurs, very softly.

“By the ears,” Hamilton replies through lips slightly parted. “Or whichever part you’d prefer.”

He hears Laurens’ intake of breath. Feels his muscles tense beneath his palm, the infinitesimal shifting of material. His lids are heavy, eyelashes fluttering as his gaze flickers to Hamilton’s mouth, still parted as if halfway to forming a question. His tongue darts out feverishly to lick his bottom lip. He opens his mouth, about to ask something when his words are cut off by Aaron Burr.

“I think I’ll take my leave,” he tells the company, only slightly unsteady as he gets to his feet. “Greene will have my hide if I stay much later.”

“Ah, you’re probably right,” Tench agrees, pushing himself up with an effort. “Good night, lads. See you bright and early.”

The motion marks an exodus, and within minutes everyone is scraping their chairs and helping one another out the door. Hamilton lingers, shooting Laurens anxious looks which go unreturned, his gaze fixed on the floor. Disappointment singes the alcohol-induced wings of Hamilton’s optimism. He tries not to let his rejection show on his face as McHenry claps him heartily on the shoulder and bids him adieu. 

He follows the others out of the pub, hissing a little at the shock of the night chill. Their voices are loud, boisterous with warmth and jovial affection, breath hanging like silvery cobwebs in the cold air. The night is crisp and clean, snow dusting the cobbles in neat mounds. He has never seen it before. The sight is enough to lift his spirits, and he bends down to sift it through his fingers. New people, new things. New country. There had been a moment with Laurens, but it had passed and probably this was for the best. In the morning, he can laugh it off, say it was the beer. They would be colleagues and, God willing, friends in time. Hamilton isn’t prone to hoping without foundation but he’s in America now. He thinks maybe he’s entitled to a little optimism, wet sand or no.

The voices fade down the street, raucous laughter scattering as his compatriots’ outlines shimmer and blur. Hamilton stays crouched to the ground, melting snow between the warm pads of his index and thumb.

The brush of a hand on the back of his neck has him shivering for an entirely different reason. He jumps up, whirls round, nearly falling backwards into a lamppost. His eyes take a second to adjust and he sees it is John Laurens standing before him, staring at him with smouldering intent. Before his brain has a chance to get to grips with the situation Laurens is gripping his wrist, long fingers curling around the bone with surprising strength.

“Did you mean it,” he says, voice low enough for the fine hairs at the back of Hamilton’s neck to stand on end. “Or were you teasing me?”

Hamilton’s breath escapes sharp and fast. It hovers briefly between them, almost the only barrier considering how close they are. “I was teasing you,” he whispers back, pausing before adding. “That’s not to say I didn’t mean it.”

Laurens licks his lips, eyes flickering nervously down the length of the street. Hamilton follows his gaze, towards the cobbled horizon where their friends have just disappeared. There’s an alleyway but a short distance; Laurens’ hand tightens on Hamilton’s wrist as he pulls him down it, darkness only barely swallowing them before he’s shoving him up against the wall.

Hamilton gasps as his back hits the brick, the rough grit scraping into his palms. Laurens still has his wrist; with the other hand he pins Hamilton’s arm to the wall. Hamilton looks at him from beneath his lids, a slow, challenging look which does very little to disguise the flash of desire in his eye, like a spark from a tinder box.

Laurens kisses him. Hamilton’s mouth opens immediately, sliding further down the wall to take in more of him. The taste of expensive whiskey is sweet and earthy on his tongue; Hamilton wants to drink it in, wants to swim in Laurens’ grip and the ocean he’s making of his mind.

They’re both panting by the time they part. Hamilton gazes up at Laurens, shameless and smug. “I see Rousseau was right after all,” he murmurs, because he can’t help it.

“To hell with your philosophers,” Laurens growls back. “I’m drunk, and I want you.”

 “Some gentleman,” Hamilton smirks. “What was that you were saying about my honour?”

Laurens barks a laugh. It’s a harsh sound, and more than slightly wolfish. “Your honour is all yours, Mr Hamilton,” he says, lowering his mouth to speak into the curve of his neck. “Just say the word if I assume too much.”

His breath his hot, teeth lightly grazing the skin of Hamilton’s neck. Hamilton bites his lip, eyes rolling back into his skull as his own comes shallow.

“Mmm. I think I’ve had enough words for one night,” he says shakily, trying to keep some semblance of composure as Laurens presses his body more firmly against him. “I much prefer actions in any case.”

For a second, Laurens falters. He pulls away to look at Hamilton, expression suddenly uncertain, almost nervous. “Actions?” he parrots stupidly.

In answer, Hamilton shifts his thigh under Laurens’ weight until its’s between his legs. Laurens breathes in sharply, eyes widening as if up till now, nothing they had been doing had been real. Hamilton rubs against him and his mouth falls open, cock already hard and tenting the front of his breeches.

“I know a place,” Hamilton whispers into his ear, hands curling significantly around Laurens’ waist. “They don’t ask questions.”

He waits, heart hammering frantically against his ribcage as Laurens appears to consider before nodding jerkily.

Hamilton slides off the wall, has to catch himself and regain his balance, not quite sure how much it has to do with the alcohol. They don’t talk on the way and it’s unbearable, the nervous anticipation between them so palpable Hamilton thinks he can hear it buzzing. Thinks if he lifted his hand in the space next to Laurens, he’d feel static. Laurens keeps looking at him, sending shy, hesitant glances and opening his mouth, as if about to say something but no words come out. It’s awkward, and tense and Hamilton’s mind is going at a hundred miles an hour as regrets _already_ start to creep their way in so that when they finally arrive at the entrance of the boarding house, his knees almost buckle with relief.

He flicks the money on the counter, asks for a room for himself and his friend. The landlady doesn’t even look up, just jerks her thumb at the stairs. If she’d ever bothered, she’d know Hamilton’s face well by now.

The room is small. There are two beds but there’s the strict sense that it’s only a formality – only one looks like its ever been slept in. Hamilton enters first, stops dead in the centre of the room. He watches, palms prickling with sweat as Laurens slowly closes the door.

Laurens turns around. His eyes fall on Hamilton standing in the middle of the room, digging the half-moons of his nails into his palms. He swallows.

Someone has to say something, and despite Laurens’ earlier bravado Hamilton sort of feels like it’s up to him to take control of the situation. He takes his coat off, drops it on the bed. Begins untying the strings of his shirt.

“Alright?” he says nervously.

Laurens nods, mouth dry. He shacks off his own coat, folding it carefully before laying it beside Hamilton’s. He takes off his shirt. Hamilton’s eyes rove over his long torso, the sliver of him shining silver in the moonlight, like the edge of a coin. Despite the hesitant, self-consciousness of the movement he feels desire quicken, slicing through and overriding the uncomfortableness and within a few short steps his hands are darting to Laurens’ hips, pulling him into the right angle to kiss.

Laurens responds eagerly, hands wrapping immediate fistfuls of Hamilton’s hair. He kisses like he talks – passionately, fiercely, almost bruising. Like he’s been hungry for a long time. And God, if Hamilton doesn’t _love_ it. He groans, fire igniting in his belly as he pushes his tongue between his teeth. He hasn’t felt this awake since stealing canons from the British, since smoke through gunblasts, bullets hitting the water and the tang of saltpetre on the air.

Laurens pushes him onto the bed, a sudden resurgence of his confidence in the alleyway. Hamilton’s hands run up his sides as he hits the mattress, flitting across his ribs. He drags his nails across the muscles of his back and Laurens hisses, moving once again to kiss Hamilton’s neck. Alexander moans, the sound choking off as suddenly there’s pressure between his legs, and Laurens slips a hand beneath his breeches.

His head drops back, hips arching forward off the mattress. Laurens’ grip is steady and sure, if holding him in the slightly mechanical way of one whose main reference point is themselves. He strokes him cautiously, then rougher when Hamilton asks for it, pumping him to full hardness until he’s twisting against the sheets. Then he bends down, fitting his mouth around his cock and Hamilton releases a strangled gasp, the feeling of his head touching the plump cushion of Laurens’ bottom lip almost enough to send him over the edge in itself.

Laurens’ tongue darts out to lick the slit teasingly before he pushes forward, throat relaxing as Hamilton’s cock slides down. Hamilton sighs, hand going to the back of Laurens’ head as his nose nudges the dark, curly hair at the base of his cock. He can feel the heat building, can feel Laurens’ own cock pressing hard and insistent against his leg as he rocks desperately against him, trying to get himself off while working to swallow Hamilton down. And just like that Hamilton is shouting a warning and then he’s coming, fists tightening in the sheets and throwing back his head and Laurens is still swallowing, licking him up like it’s his one job and his only aim is to please.

By the time the silver dots have cleared from his vision and Hamilton has enough presence of mind to return to himself, Laurens is straining so hard Hamilton can see a patch of damp forming on the front of his breeches. He undoes them quickly, dragging them down until they’re strewn around his knees and Laurens’ cock springs into view. It’s rosy pink, flushed prettily and curving upwards towards his stomach. Hamilton wants to press a kiss to it but Laurens shakes his head, taking his hand instead and guiding it towards him. 

Hamilton obeys, jerking Laurens efficiently and swiping the precum off the head with his thumb. It isn’t until he lays a hand casually, an afterthought really, on the small of his back just above his coccyx that Laurens comes – shooting in reams across Hamilton’s stomach with a long, high-pitched groan of almost pain, before finally collapsing against his chest.

*

In the morning, Hamilton wakes up to find Laurens already dressed, and tying his cravat in the cracked mirror above the wash basin.

“Hello,” Laurens tries for his crooked smile and fails, gaze falling short as it drops from Hamilton’s bare chest. “How did you sleep?”

“Well, thank you,” Hamilton replies, taking in the room as the events of last night creep steadily back. His head is ringing louder than a clarion call, he raises a hand to it, grimacing at its tenderness. “Jesus God. How much did I drink?”

“Uh,” Laurens wrinkles his nose ruefully. “The Schuylkill? More or less.”

Hamilton grunts, courteously acknowledging the attempt at humour. He pushes the sheets off his torso (Laurens looks away sharply) and reaches off the edge of the mattress for his breaches. Grasping around blindly, he feels his fingers close on something cold and hard. He looks down to see a small cluster of fat, round coins.

“What’s this?” he frowns, rolling one between his index and thumb like he had the snow on the street.

“Payment for last night,” Laurens replies, and when Hamilton gawps at him adds hastily, “For the room, I mean.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hamilton waves dismissively. “You bought enough drinks for the whole party, twice over.”

“Yeah but,” Laurens starts without thinking. “I know that you don’t have-”

He cuts himself off, only too late. Hamilton’s gaze narrows as he stares at him, indignation rising swift and hot in his chest as Laurens immediately looks guilty.

“You know _what,_ sir?” he asks, the last word spat in bitter irony.

“Look,” Laurens tries to smooth over his blunder. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Hamilton glares at him, trying to communicate through sheer anger that that only makes it worse. “You don’t know anything about me,” he settles on finally.

“Maybe,” Laurens hums in agreement. “I’d like to though.”

He finishes tying off his cravat, straightening up to look at Hamilton. It’s a different kind of gaze than last night, honest, candid, but no less intense. Hamilton still feels like it could flay him open. “I’d like us to be friends,” he says.

Hamilton snorts. “I have to tell you that I make it a point to preserve myself from…particular attachments,” he replies.

“Meaning?”

“I don’t fuck my friends.”

Laurens’ mouth twists wryly. “How inconvenient,” he replies. “I fuck mine almost exclusively.”

The laugh rises in Hamilton’s throat before he can properly suppress it. “That’s a rather broad church,” he comments. “Bold of you to admit your experience so freely.”

Laurens shrugs. “Bold of you to assume I have many friends.”

This time, Hamilton’s laugh bursts out loudly, freely, breaking forth like water over a dam. Laurens grins back, sheepish but pleased.

“So we are agreed,” he says finally, offering his hand. “There is to be no more fucking of friends.”

Hamilton nods. “Platonic virtue only,” he replies, taking it. “Comme Rousseau.”

They shake hands. Laurens’ smile broadens. Mouth crooked, canines slightly too sharp.

Hamilton likes it a _lot._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the rest, as they say, is history
> 
> I finally saw Hamilton on stage on monday and this...is the result. Consider it my contribution to the revolution. Also Happy Fourth of July!
> 
> commentsssss are good <3

**Author's Note:**

> i realise im annoyingly inconsistent with naming my characters...it's not a deliberate choice or anything i'm just v lazy


End file.
